XIV. When We Stop Sitting Open-legged,

XIV. When We Stop Sitting Open-legged,

Afghanistan gets its curricula Fahrenheit 451ed.

Motor cycles become chests: unshaved without a TelePrompTer.

Sepia copies of bodies turn into the burqa avenger.

I spring out of bed to put my blouse on,
Granny had already had the talk,

Crunch coco puffs,
Sip orange juice,

Ma cums on my legs

Run fo’ da ball,
Shower with ma’ friends,

I start to understand, as my shorts turn red,
Why “Ami bhalo ma na, Ami super-mom”

Let the gentlemen get the rubber;

This time–the only time,
 I am allowed to–
When my underwear hits the floor,
As the Table lamp flashes dim.

Pohela Boisakh, which rubs the sun off its eyes, and sees Pakis in Muhammed Ali’s bebop bull’s eye, can only reassert the Bangali Jati–
with CCTV.

I am on rickshaw, with a three piece on.
I am alone, or with a friend, preferably female.
The boy with his collar undone asks me in a tone befitting a saint to lift my orna from the tires so that I am not mislead into strangling myself, because he cannot bare the sight of my breasts.

Artwork: Veronika Bromová’s Open Legs from 1996.

NaPoWriMo: Day 14


XIII. 7-5-7–For you

XIII. 7-5-7–For you

Wanted you for dinner,
But I shan’t deny,
You were too fire to swallow.

Pray tell, ocean rafts you had
To drought for a drink
Of the aftertaste to bite.

With no shotgun in your hand,
Dreamers drone to doors,
Farewell, my friend, you–
are forever sand in my eyes.

4th stanzas are false;
They lie to us.
Do not listen.
Khomota nei.
You: As if someone was pouring salt on my cunt for all these years.

Artwork: Veronika Bromovás: “Open Legs,” 1996

NaPoWriMo: Day 13

XII. Nobodies

XII. Nobodies


The nobodies:

To Galeano

But also to yourself, who tries to understand.

Textbooks are for learning, to give to

nobody’s children, owners of nothing


The nobodies: the no-ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way

But textbooks are for cutting garmentwallahthroats in their sleep, for the ones

 Who are not, but could be. Who don’t speak languages, but dialects

Because art galleries don’t pay minimum wage; textbooks are for

Who don’t have religions, but superstitions

–Overhung microphones swinging for a purpose,

Who don’t create art, but handicrafts. Who don’t have culture, but folklore. Who are not human beings, but human resources

Who are Section 144’s fashi chai Mussolinis but in countries where the trains forgot to run on time.

Who do not have faces, but arms. Who do not have names, but numbers,

Where “Yaar muje bhuk lagri hae” appears as white noise.

Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the crime reports of the local paper

On the pigeon holed, left-field, cubicles in the tabloid section, where Ershad’s fists slam the tinted windows, when the CMH psych ward sodomizes our gun-wielding, porn-addict, forever unable to use a keyboard to masturbate.

  The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.









Don’t have your passport sown to a كَندورَة , when you are out in a tight dress to get hit on by

Abood & Hamoods.


NaPoWriMo: Day 12

XI. Beyond the Wire–

XI. Beyond the Wire–

“A Man May Cease Beating His Wife Without Thereby Creating a Wholesome Marital Relationship.”


১. বুরা

কবিতা :How would you describe poetry? And following from your description, how would you characterize the contemporary poetry scene in Dhaka, and indeed across Bangladesh? Is there hope?

Syed Shamsul Haque: “Poetry is inspired dialogue. A poet deals with both internal or personal feeling and collective conscience…we need a collective voice for composing poetry. We are going through a drought where good poetry has become scarce.”

Syed Shamsul Haque- এই ইতিহাস ভুলে যাবো আজ, আমি কি তেমন সন্তান ?

কবিতা: Etihash kemon kore bhullam?
Ajke, baire jaan ni?
Projonmo ra to Coachella
Waiting for the reincarnation of
3(insert000s) backfromthedead Jesus looklikes anticipating the beep
Of a Mollah’s
Adaptation of Mersault on the scaffold.
Out of bamboo.
But not verses.
No thread to hang on;
Guess where I am.
Pantaloons stiff live wire;
Bangla Baazar projecting holograms of
Espionage, pre ’17;
Headphone in on
Beauty Boarding’s
Fingers ball
Bhaath ar Shorshey ilish,
As he spoke while chewing:
“saying:–I did those then
but that was then
that was then—“

২. Eber Shomadhan Jatra:

• …Onek Mahilar Chhobi deklam apnader modhe.
• Public Wi-fi chai, Dhaka Universitir Hall gula te jerokom den, orokom na kintu!
• Apnar mobile theke Lotus Kamal Tower er number ti delete kora chai.
• Apni 1171 shale ki korechen shunte chai……………………………………..Na.
• Scotch tape chai.

৩. Tourniquet- to pacify undesirables.

We interrupt this live transmission from the hubbub of the Old World Rentiers ,
To bring you Mr. James Baldwin reporting from the Occupied Territories, Harlem, New York, July 11, 1966..

Take it away,

“I can’t believe what you say,
Because I see what you do.”

–what’s going on over here?
You grew up here, what does that all mean,
How does it relate to what we were just talking about?

“This means that I also know, in my own flesh,
and know, which is worse,
in the scars borne by many of those dearest to me,
the thunder and fire of the billy club,
the paralyzing shock of spittle in the face,
and I know what it is to find oneself blinded,
on one’s hands and knees,
at the bottom of the flight of steps down which one has just been hurled.”

–Breaking–কেন্দ্রীয় কারাগারে 6 antebellum treasures were
Stop and frisked on their way down the elevator.
As portals rotated to a nativity scene on the ground floor,
Members of the press capitulated to the efforts of the civilized
To..to..to hug her white brother without a hack to his back.
What do they say in Washington?

Do you think that any of those unemployed, unemployable Negroes who are going to be on the streets all summer will cause us any trouble? What do you think we should do about it?
But, later on,
I concluded that I had got the second part of the question wrong,
they really meant,
… what was I going to do about it?


…I know Negroes who have gone literally mad because they wished to become commercial air-line pilots.

–What does that have to do with…

…The children, having seen the spectacular defeat of their fathers—having seen what happens to any bad nigger and, still more, what happens to the good ones—cannot listen to their fathers and certainly will not listen to the society which is responsible for their orphaned condition.

— Mr Baldwin…
–James! But, the Negroes…

…contain an incontestable vitality and authority. This is far more than can be said of the middle class which, in any case, and whether it be black or white, does not dare to cease despising him.

–Jim! Fucking stop, I can’t! I don’t want to live! This…

Occupied territory is occupied territory,
Even though it be found in that New World…
In occupied territory that any act of resistance, even though it be executed by a child,
Be answered at once, and with the full weight of the occupying forces.

–I am on ma’ knees, on ma’ knees, on ma’ knees,
Graduate of Faulkner’s playhouse.
Been born again! Man.
I want it. I need it. Hit me:
Scaldings paint jobs;
Hit me:
Refracted opinions
Hit me,
Karon shoti, ashsholey,
ধরা পড়ছে, ধরা পড়ছে আয়নাতে চেহারা।
Karon shoti, ashsholey,
ধরা পড়ছে, ধরা পড়ছে- হাতকড়াতে হাত।

Daniel Hamm:
“They don’t want us here. They don’t want us—period! All they want us to do is work on these penny-ante jobs for them—and that’s it. And beat our heads in whenever they feel like it. They don’t want us on the street ’cause the World’s Fair is coming. And they figure that all black people are hoodlums anyway, or bums….
So they put us off the streets, so their friends from Europe, Paris or Vietnam—wherever they come from—can come and see this supposed-to-be great…”

Perm my intuition with polli kobi nacher gaans:
This has nothing to do with nothing,
To do with nothing to do with nothing.

–X! X! X! Ech…ss



A warm thank you to MLKJames Baldwin and David Simon, for their words. 🙂

Day 11: NaPoWriMo

X. I Censored myself because my friends don’t care about Saving the World. What I really meant was: “Annisul er arek nam bokachoda”…is what I will shout when Sarwat bails me out.

X. I Censored myself because my friends don’t care about Saving the World. What I really meant was: “Annisul er arek nam bokachoda”…is what I will shout when Sarwat bails me out.

Lol, u r nt worth it,
Rather listen to Catalan girls strumming Kurt Cobain.

F**k it,
Let’s get loaded and have a good time.

Theses are turnstile, yellow:
Draft dodgers watching Woodstock in celluloid.

Union busting:
Weekends are 8+n hours for stressed jeans,
Middle and index are Coco.
Chanel on coke.
Maternities period vaginas for tailors,
If only the incubator knew,
Two shits
About the million wouldbe comforters earthed in sepulchers barred from grocery shopping.

Cannot write haikus.
Linguistics evolve but, A-Z is never okie under the aegis of old poetmen, unless you are Chuck Norris.

The streets are where it is,
You write with
Chin on pillow,
Knees folded,
Toes predatory,
The streets are always where it is.
Where it will be, though,

NYT might be 60-40 advertisement,
And Johnson & Johnson might pull cheques when someone inks that fair is not the lore,

Yemen was not the site of a mass carbon creation from carcass.
From death being suppressed through the Jurassic to fuel instantaneously
A cities’ blow dryers on call,

To break up labour disputes.

Day 10: NaPoWriMo

IX. Bengali

IX. Bengali

a. This is not a poem,
This is the photographic negative of your dead parents wondering why they are not billionaires.

b. This is not a poem,
This is the vignette of your mother wondering how Aklima speaks English, while she wonders why none of the boys swoon, “Babe, a drink?”

c. This is not a poem,
This is the Anglo-Saxon nickname entering a screening of “Searching for Sugar Man”

d. This is not a poem,
This is you believing that your vicarious portrait of a slave has any existence.

e. This is not a poem,
This is you believing you are not gnashing masala with mortar and pestle.

f. This is not a poem,
This is you having the attention span of 9gag.

g. This is not a poem,
This is you believing that a business magnate cares about transsexuals and rickshaw wallah daughters.

h. This is not a poem.
This is the atomization of your heart and its rebellions.

i. This is not a poem, i would say this is you, but i have lied too much already.

VIII. Babu. Shut Up and Play the Hits!

VIII. Babu. Shut Up and Play the Hits!

Tor Bhalobasha: Chaku

*Miss. Mohsin do not read on, not that I want to give you the impression that you can.

Justify: these thoughts are not disjointed.

Chol-I am not a statistic

-Bol-my forearms are Lamya Parker’s legs,

Jai- When you grasp them, they explode

-Shona-like Talha’s cum-popping-load attributing death camps.

Shahbag- Think me a history major, but sleep with me.

-Shuntesi- pulse my thighs, they are Kardashian tenderloins.

Stop. I cannot breath when you fuck me from behind.

SorryIs that the only way?
Babyno, but the others are all on MDMA.

Baethanot one of your French girls
Paisos?will not be pimped.


You-patience never came gently,
Are-these days, those days of chasing people who would have hated you for your money, seem
Just-funny, but you know you never sold drugs to any kids, so you can bed without conscience
Growing-you were not in Abu gharib; they came, till midnight,every time you stuck two fingers down your throat, to vomit release.
Up-mother and father did not speak; that’s how you learnt:

That, I wanted you, but,
You would have hated me for my money,
You would have hated me for my money,
You would have hated me for my money.

NaPoWriMo: Day 8

Photograph: Shuvroo Neel

VII- Banani: তোমাদের বয়সে…আমি বাংলাদেশের সবচে পপুলার লোক ছিলাম.

VII- Banani:  তোমাদের বয়সে…আমি বাংলাদেশের সবচে পপুলার লোক ছিলাম.

ক –
The oxygen lied. She passed it. She didn’t.
His laughter lied. She passed it. She needn’t.
His eyes soiled. She passed it. She got up. C.
N.G. recoiled. Martyrs didn’t fare that low.
Take it or leave it, the body volte-face.
Agreed. Streets are puberty. Buffet Now.
Anger later. Address: A paper town,
Only through eavesdrops. Watchdogs let In. Cars
Lead away. Invites are synonyms.
Furniture are antonyms.Men are men.

তুই –

Women are revered. Pop goes saliva.
Brains are bonnets. Ideals are no drivers.
Stage to sonnets. Trip wears off.  Bloo-ming-dales-
Sprout in family gardens. Curves played in-
Struments. Curves undid entire bands. Or so.
Curves burped. Never. Curves were never. Always.
The bar had him standing to scare her. Pool
swallowed entire teenagers. Azad:
Four decades of fakers; Feet were earthquakes.
Lips were fever. Ballroom. Mic: the machete.


NaPoWriMo: Day 7

VI. Poet

VI. Poet
  • S.S

I settled in my chair,
rocked by songs
from the breathing
of your nostrils.

এক কনায়, চেয়ারে বসে বসে
তোমার  লাল  লালা
ছুঁসেছি ।

But you got up,
and walked away
like many

  • S.S.S


You will leave.

As the politicians will break
us into a thousand pieces.
You will leave.

As my four walls will be echo chambers of
our conversations,
you will leave.

As the film reels
Of our adventures
play over and over
in-front of my eyes,
You will leave.


  • M.M.


hail liberal Women,
and exchange polysyllables,
in return for the choice to go back to sleep;
so, we can go to back to Chobir Haat and greet each other with condolences about the latest disasters,
while, factories are burnt, temples are looted,
And poems about progressive causes are recited;
while women cannot pay the rent
with money collected from sex,

Moaning, I am better than you.

  • S.T.A.

…The thing about
Not wearing a hijab,
Is that when you stop ,
And don’t even have to try to win,
It becomes a habit.

You start baring unsolicited skin.
When you stop,
And he caresses your tummy…

  • R.I.N.

…আর আমি মাননিয় স্পিকারের
বিরুদ্ধে মামলা করবো ,
তোমার হৃদয় যেনো উনি পাস করেন ।

  • A.L.

…And you, you will always be there.
And I will always be your gun:
The one,
That never pulls the trigger.

Early day 6: NaPoWriMo

V: Bartoli+The Longest Suicide Note in History

V: Bartoli+The Longest Suicide Note in History

Too Many Thoughts:

This will be short, I promise you.
Some poems are more equal than others.
So, Adele asked me to ask you to guess which poet had written this:

“If I should die,
You would dance needles down my spine,

If din rustled against window panes
Rope me in, and settle me in brine!”

So for a test, indulge Adele, and guess.
Please, my friends, this will make Adele’s day.

Adele see’s many hands up:

“O’ Hara”, too New York
“Kaiser”, too unsureofhisplaceintheworld,
“Tahmima”, too iamnottalkingaboutherfather,
“Bukowski”, too hipster,
Vonneguet”, toobukowski,
“Plath”, too biased.

so it’s

Someone every one respects but no has read:
Emily Dickinson.

Then again,
It’s also the young girl, no not that one,
Chased away by Emily Dickinson’s gentlemen for scavenging the trash for badgers.

কথা #: Jamdani

And I understand that you have a poem for Miss Bartoli?

Sadaf: “You are one of countless  
Whose story was never told
And never will
As all records were burnt.
And you will never come forward
As your people brutalized you over again.
As your government
Washed its hands
Of you and your sacrifice
And doesn’t want to know
What you went through then.
And still are now
If you managed to survive.”

Adele: Wonderful!
Sadaf, and you are the Director of Hay Dhaka,
A festival many people have decried as exclusionary to vast sections of the Bengali population.
What do you say to these critics?

Sadaf: “We want to push the boundaries of knowledge…..The idea is to take literature beyond an elite few, and make it engaging, accessible and relevant to a wider audience.”

Adele: All right, then.
Tell us a little bit about yourself.
You spent your childhood abroad before moving here, yes?
So, how did you make that transition, especially you being the daughter of one of the most esteemed scientists in Bangladesh, Jamal Nazrul Islam.

Sadaf:  “I was not interested to come here with my parents and couldn’t even speak Bangla language properly,..
At that time I was sixteen and it was huge cultural shock for me as I grew up in England,”

Adele: Interesting,
And how did you experience this shock?

Sadaf: “The idea of Bangladesh is terrifying to a lot of people,..The main perception? That the country is all about ‘floods and poverty’,” 

Adele: That is very true, actually. Bangladesh has become virtually synonymous with poverty.
But what people fail to realize is that there is more to Bangladesh, like economic progress, and women’s empowerment,
Through the RMG sector.
And Bangladesh is always brimming with people ready to rejuvenate the country in the minds of foreigners, isn’t that right?

Sadaf: “We’ve kind of got the product ready. So now it’s kind of like,

‘Do come to Bangladesh’

…Sometimes we take them to a social initiative, an orphanage, maybe show them how women do microcredit,”

Adele: Tell us a little about women in Bangladesh, for us foreigners, in terms of advancement, and more specifically how you have contributed to this.

Sadaf: Eikhane….Khub interesting ekta ghotona ache. Ami ekta garments factorir shate jorito. To…um…ah…ekta Mae onek din dhore kaj korche, ebong…borong shey grame eshe ek joner shathe…
She met him…and she married him.…
Hae…to…ekhon garments factory te ekta day care ache,

So prothome ektu conservative je na ami tomar jonno provide korbo…To bollo je thik ache ami kaj kori, mae ke, Amar choto mae ke daycarey rakhbo kintu,

Um….bollo je thik ache tumi kaj koro, kintu, je ta tumi aye koro sheta tumi maeyr name ekta jomi Kine rakho.

Adele: How delightful!

I am afraid, though, that we are at the end,
The audience grows frustrated even as I do not speak,
So finally, how do you see yourself?
In regards to fitting in with the larger fabric of the country?

Sadaf: “…Amar mone hoy amar motoi, kintu, shobai”

Adele: Thank you. That’s all for today, folks. 

Join us…next…



Thank you Gerald Kaufman

NaPaWriMo: (05/04/2015)

IV. Adivasi/Chummu Tomake/Adori

IV. Adivasi/Chummu Tomake/Adori


…Chit kar checha mechi,
Chit kar checha mechi,
Chit kar checha mechi,

Chit kar, chit kar

The editor,

Is happy because I have stolen her balls and sold them to the merchants in Tehran,
Who have weaved them into Niqabs,
DHLed them to the blacksmith,
Who hammered them into insignias for the Quds Revolutionary Guard,
Who were denied invasion of the Arabs
Saying STOP! at Karbala.
So the Quds sat there and wept to their babes,
Who decided to stay invisible,
Though they were Scheduled-
Ships to the Upomohadesh.

Keo khabe to keo khabe na,
Keo khabe to keo khabe na.
Keo Jane to, Jane na.
Ta hobe to, tai hobe to.

‘Amrao to khudarto,
Amader maren na keno?’

Je ne suis pas Rana plaza,
Je ne suis pas,
Je ne suis pas Puran raja,
Je ne suis pas
Je ne suis pas Tazreen thana;
Je ne suis pas

Je ne suis pas

Je ne suis pas
je ne suis pas.
Je ne suis pas.

If you are reading this: I am needy, adore.

I know Apa shallowly,
but not too deeply.

Driver ta ke Maren na!
Also, Abeger kotha bolechen, akhon bibeker ta bolen.

Djubok, tumi amar,

Permutations of monolith-funded Moonwatchers cannot play thrash metal,
I say this even as,
I will retain your un-teeth expressions of fight club into consideration for my novel about:

In the duration of which we shall make French love,
And pose for photographs taken by an Edie Sedgwick lookalike,
Winged by a parrot,
Shouldering a shaggy haired pop-artist,
Who you will gun down as he did not,
Even as he had agreed to,
publish your manifesto on how
EDM is the animal of the year.

But that’s all nation building.

For now:

Driver ta ke Maren na keno?
Chabagan er manushi to.


Big thank you to Azyz Amami.

NaPoWriMo-Day 4

III. Penis: how to divide attention into syllables Within the Chateau Marmont

III. Penis: how to divide attention into syllables Within the Chateau Marmont

Houdini হতে ছেয়ে ছিলাম, তোমার।

দেখ না, দেখ না!

দেখ না! দেখ না!

মাল টা তো ভালো,
মাল টা তো ভালো,
মাল টা তো ভালো,

দেখ না! দেখ না!

“গোলাম  করে রেখেছে আমাদের, ওরা, ভাইয়েরা!”

Lookin’ up my bitch,
Lookin’ up my bitch,
Lookin’ up my bitch,

দেখ না! দেখ না!

Drivin’ in ma’ hoe,
drivin’ in ma’ hoe,
Drivin’ in ma’ hoe

দেখ না! দেখ না!

*drop your jeans, flirt your top*

Because I cannot stroll two yards before eyes peel me raw,
The same why? There are metro tickets on Simone’s grave at Montparnasse,
The same as it was in 68’ when Paris was @tumblr.com
The same as it was, because you can call wildcats from your armchair,
Because no one shames the actor who plays Batman, because he cannot actually fly.

Not different, because the Swedes shot BlackPowerMixTapes,
Because they had free schooling,
Again as FDR had polio, because Zangara was Napolean in height,
Because he was a poor Italian, who did not sleep with Joan Baez, so remained a poor Italian.

Meinhoff can walk topless while training with Black September in Jordanian camps,
Ulrike can also be a journalist and a terroristisnotabadwordbydefault.
Baader is a wifebeater,
Yet Baader loves Gudrun.
Stammheim Prison only existed because we forget to post during NaPoWriMo.

Yes, I do have a crush on Leila

She held the pilotwhodidflyoverthealps at gunpoint,
To detour over Haifa.
Yes, I would not have liked it if I was on that plane.
But, then, the PFLP would’ve provided cyanide to the middle classes.

  • Five-TWA Flight 741
  • Five-Swissair Flight 100
  • Five-El Al Flight 219
  • Five-Pan Am Flight 93
  • Five-BOAC Flight 775

Argüello bled scotch,
Khaled reached into her bra,
The passengers nosedived:
“মাল টা তো ভালো”

দেখ না,

in the inner cities,
in the penny-arcades,
in the roaring twenties,
in the flinching maids,
in the bees kneez,
in the humanitarian aids,
in the kiss me please,
in the thong down, cunnilingus, orgy, funkadelic,
Dawn raids,
In the don’t distribute your stickers and the we don’t follow your private sector, sponsored by redheads, parking Metaws.

Only when Munich was Spitz’s Jewish 80’s mustachio,
And Mossad was in the pool, on the track, over the jumping beams, did We
Realize that you need not fight:

মাল টা এতো ভালো,
এতো ভালো,
জে মারতে মারতেই আমরা ঘুমিয়ে পরবো।





II. On D.G; for Elliot. thekid.

II. On D.G; for Elliot. thekid.

Dear Elliot,



Wanna blood ma’ knuckles
Onto your Joni Mitchell;
Stream J.J’s masturbatory consciousness

When ami met Mark Felt in the basement,
He went down on ami.

Ami felt good.
Ami felt strong between his legs.
Ami wanted a big C.O.D piece.
Ami want more.



Roam, Home, Womb.
Rome, Home, Womb.
Roam, Home, Womb.

The Palestinians in bothtirish are suckers for my clit,
They heard that ami read that lekhok who was American then British then Nobel then…

“Are you for, or against, the legal government and people of Republican Spain? Are you for, or against, Franco and Fascism? For it is impossible any longer to take no side.”

Fuck. No.

Ami wants Jahanghirnagar’s Banglar Casinos,
Ami wants Jahanghirnagar’s Dylan-haired Lalons,
Ami wants you, but ami also wants…


Ami wants missionaries to fuck.
Ami wants drunk donkeys.
Ami wants hail on hartal.
Ami wants Columbine.
No love for elephant man.
Ami want du du.
Ami want womb.


April 2nd: NaPoWriMo

Visit NaPoWriMo for more information.

I. Kazi & Kazi or why I cannot pronounce Sandinista!

I. Kazi & Kazi or why I cannot pronounce Sandinista!

Only I did think that the revolution would give my mouth sex appeal.
Very slowly, though, so my gums could still lip the words, because I only read playboy for the articles,

Eventually, at Gulshan-2 , the hawker bellowed “International New York Times”;
Runaways, this is not a protest song, so I cannot catch your eyes mid roll.
Transient: because you really did not want to know what Iprimmyfacialhair meant when he called Novemberfest auditoriums tamashas, as if Ginsberg was on trial for Haymarket.

SpongeBob balms my brain,
Elongated antennas don’t translate verses into chorus, so
Empires phoenix, while the XXX parts of game of thrones are on rewind,
Cowing is radical,
Hence do not bitch, unless everyone suddenly remembers, that Inu was the one who wanted to be a shoemaker.

Inscrutability not a virtue?
So, I will not read till the end, as this diktat has too many un-published tea-pickers drunk with organic agriculture.

As they were when I was kid and playing doctor with the girl next door

Even as I have not actually edified myself with Mr Kissinger’s oeuvre,
I believe I like the size of his sacks, which are working, as we do not speak,
To bring a Starbucks to Rayar Bazar.


Photograph: Post Box Entertainments

April 1st: NaPoWriMo

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